For Me
by RougeaufSherlock
Summary: "Just give up, Sherlock. Give in." John parted Sherlock's knees again and looked at the dark patch on the bed. "You're losing control."


**PLEASE READ!** ***Hey, so, sorry it's been a while! I've moved over to ao3 under the Pseud, _"Unterpression."_ Cool stuff. **ALSO THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT DON"T READ THIS IF YOU'LL GET GROSSED OUT**! Let me explain. It has to do with peeing. I thought I'd try it out. But it's** peeing**, as in **PEE!** If that grosses you out, please don't read. There is also **MILD DUBCON/NONCON**, and **LIGHT RESTRAINTS.**

Otherwise, enjoy! And if you want more of my stuff, check out my ao3!

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Sherlock awoke in a strange and uncomfortable position, cool air directly covering his skin. His arms were pulled back uncomfortably far and his wrists were bound to the bedposts. He turned his head. The restraints were black, leather, and seemingly impossible to escape without a key. He felt for some spot to trick them into opening, but nothing was to be found. There was, however, comfort in the walls which were those of his own bedroom. He was tied up, but he was tied up at home. Peculiar, it was.

"John!" he called, seeking his best friend's aid. Only once had he been in a similar predicament, and that was when he tried to rob Irene Adler. He smiled to himself. Was this her way of telling him she'd returned? He thought maybe he would oblige this time to her offers, just to see what it's like to have his sexuality at the mercy of a woman. Would it confirm to him what he already knew of himself, or lead him down a different road?  
The door handle turned and in popped John Watson.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, calmly, as he often did.

"Clearly not," said Sherlock. "I need you to cut me free of these restraints."

John gave him a once over. Never had Sherlock felt so exposed before. Ice trickled down his veins and he scrambled for distraction. "Please," he begged, hoping that in being more polite, John would do as asked.

After some brief, stunned silence, John finally said, "Sure, yeah. I'll go get some scissors."  
And he closed the door.

Three minutes had passed. Sherlock listened for noises outside his room, footsteps, drawers opening and closing, yet he heard nothing.

"They're in the oven!" he called.

"Got it!" called John from the kitchen. Yet Sherlock heard nothing open nor close.

John left the kitchen and went to his chair where a glass half-filled with water sat. He opened up the day's paper and sat down. Nothing in the news was really too interesting, but it passed the time. A young boy was returned to his parents after a kidnapping, a case Sherlock had the opportunity to work with, but declined.  
He could faintly hear Sherlock struggling, but he simply smiled and turned the page. It was a waiting game, and John would wait all day.

"Do you have them?" called Sherlock.

"Nope!" called John. "Hold on!"

He felt the key in his pocket.

And hour had passed, and Sherlock was no longer blind to what was going on. It wasn't Irene, nor was it the work of an enemy. It was the work of a friend. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that it was John who restrained him. The question was, why? Clearly the restraints were sex toys, but not very good ones at that, as the restrained individual would have zero chance of escaping on their own. It was possibly some sort of punishment for whatever Sherlock did wrong this time, though he couldn't place what it was. Usually there was a lot. He ran options through his head like machine parts on an assembly line, yet he couldn't figure out why John was doing this to him.

Sherlock usually wouldn't mind an entire day of seclusion and silence, but it was only on his own time, with the freedom to move about as he wished, and to take care of his needs. After an hour of being awake, it came to his attention that one of those needs was calling.

"Let me out, I have to piss!" called Sherlock.

John looked up from the paper, then walked to the kitchen.

He brewed himself a cup of tea, making sure it was extra strong. Then he sat at the table and sipped on it while he updated his blog about their case from yesterday. It was a case that went unsolved, because the criminals had escaped by hitting Sherlock over the head. Once John had checked that he was alright and in no need of hospital attention, he brought him home and took his opportunity.  
It was a particularly long entry. There were a lot of little details, like how Sherlock got a thorn stuck in his thumb that put him in a bad mood for the entire day, and how they had to dress up like mimes for a couple of hours to keep the chase going.

"Let me out!" called Sherlock.

John checked the clock. Another 45 minutes had passed since Sherlock last called to him. He decided it was time to pay a visit. There was pitcher of water in the refrigerator and a very tall glass in the cupboard. John finished up his blog entry and grabbed them.

Sherlock was well past the early stage and now at the point where the need to piss was unbearable. He contorted his legs, trying his best to hold it in. This was his bed afterall, and he wasn't a child.

Oh the fear that grew in his eyes though, when John walked in with a pitcher of water.

"How do you feel?" asked John, setting the water down on the nightstand. It sloshed about, and the noises it was making were certainly not helping any.

"Have you come to torture me?" asked Sherlock scathingly.

John stepped back and moved his gaze to Sherlock's cock. It was half-erect, long, and slender, a little pink, and just a little bit perfect. He stared, and Sherlock felt vulnerable.

"Well?" said Sherlock.

"I'm not going to hurt you, don't worry," said John, as if he were brushing it off, as if nothing was happening.

"How do you feel?" repeated John.

"Like I'm going to piss the bed."

"How badly?" asked John.

"For god's sake John, do you have some sort of fetish?"

John grinned. "You could say that." He crawled on the bed, each movement of the mattress was more pressure on Sherlock's bladder. Sherlock's vulnerable expression turned quizzical, but he kept any words and expressions of concern to himself. John took each of Sherlock's legs, one by one, and pushed them back so that Sherlock's feet were behind him. Then he spread his knees. This would make it harder for Sherlock to stay in control of his body.

"Has anyone ever seen you naked before?" asked John.

Sherlock slowly shook his head.

"Well then I'm a lucky man," he said.

"I wouldn't consider it 'luck'," snapped Sherlock.

"How badly do you have to go?" asked John.

"Don't waste your breath," said Sherlock. "I'll wait as long as I have to."

"I've got all day," teased John. "In the meantime though, with you so naked and exposed, I may take a few liberties."

"What do you-" but Sherlock's question was answered immediately when John dipped down and pressed his lips to his abdomen. He dragged them upward, toward Sherlock's nipples, and he watched Sherlock's cock rise.

It sent jolts of feathery sensations to Sherlock's limbs, but the pain in his bladder was even more unbearable with every sensation, and his bodily control was withering.

"I want to play with your body," said John. He closed his mouth over one of Sherlock's nipples and teased it with his teeth and circled it with his tongue. Sherlock closed his knees and pressed his legs together. It helped somewhat.

"Fascinating how hard your nipples get," said John, leaving one red and swollen and moving to the other. "How they respond to my touch." He poked the second nipple with the tip of his tongue, then flattened it over the tiny bump. He licked up and down, swirled his tongue around the edges and graced it with his teeth.  
Sherlock shivered, a nervous sweat at his temples. He was ready to burst. He squeezed his legs tighter, but it wasn't helping anymore, so he loosened the pressure just for a moment.

There was no relief. Every edge of Sherlock's body ached, and he whimpered. Unfortunately, now erect, he had no opportunity to empty his bladder even if he wanted to.

John closed his hand around Sherlock's cock. "Let me help you out."

Sherlock had wanked before, but never were the sensations so strong. His cock was already sensitive from the need to piss. John pulled once and it was as if Sherlock was hit with lightning, the sensations were so strong. Another pull, and he felt the dam crack. His body jerked in reaction. John grinned maliciously, and at the third pull, Sherlock burst, feeling like his entire body was a grand display of fireworks. He was coming. Coming on John's clothing, coming on his own chest, and then he felt a jolt at his bladder and quickly tightened his legs.

He was breathless, body conflicted between wanting to fall apart and wanting to keep together. He looked desperately at John, who was still star-struck at Sherlock's orgasm.

"Please, John. Let me go. I'm going to piss."

John looked disapprovingly down at Sherlock's closed legs and parted his knees again. Then he looked Sherlock directly in the eyes.

"Piss for me."

Sherlock went red in the face. "I'll hold it," he said with spite.

"Okay," said John. "I'll pour you some water while you wait."

John got off the bed and filled the tall glass to the top. A took a sip himself, then pulled back Sherlock's head and tipped the glass into his mouth. Sherlock had little choice. He drank and drank, the glass gradually emptying, and then John heard a little patter.

Sherlock was losing control.

John set down the finished glass and returned to the bed. Sherlock squirmed with each movement, but it didn't help. Another patter, then another. He closed his knees. It stopped.

"Just give up, Sherlock. Give in." John parted Sherlock's knees again and looked at the dark patch on the bed. "You're losing control."

Sherlock whimpered, "Please."

But John simply held the back of Sherlock's neck and pressed their foreheads together..

"Lose control," he whispered, pressing his fingers to Sherlock's belly. It worked. The damn burst and Sherlock exploded, the hissing, the tapping of a long powerful stream of piss hitting the bed. John pressed harder to Sherlock's stomach and Sherlock doubled over. It went on and on, and just as he thought it was over, there was more. John kept pressing, getting every last drop.

He watched the stream spurt from Sherlock's cock. He watched it puddle on the bed. He watched Sherlock's face as it flooded with an erotic mixture of embarrassment and relief.

"Fuck, Sherlock. This is so hot," he said. "I need to wank."

He lied on his back while Sherlock stared in disbelief at his mess, and John wanked faster than he ever had before. The image of Sherlock's undoing played over and over again in his head. The loss of control, the humiliation.

"Oh fuck. Oh god Sherlock." His voice was desperate. He pulled faster. "Fuck," he breathed, and then he was coming, unforgettable sensations like a billion tiny butterflies in each limb. He had never come so hard in his life.

He had to lie there afterwards, just to catch his breath. He'd almost forgotten Sherlock was there, aside from the scent of urine which was growing stronger by the second.

"John," Sherlock reminded. "Release me?"

"What? Oh. Sure." John pulled the key from his pocket and lazily moved toward the restraints. He undid them one at a time, and Sherlock rubbed the wrists of each free arm.

He had since regained his composure, but he was still a bit shaken. "What was that all about?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," said John. "I shouldn't have done it that way, I know I should have asked, but-"

"You had the opportunity," said Sherlock.

"Yes," admitted John.

Sherlock smiled. He knew that feeling all too well. "Next time," he said. "Just ask me. I'm more than willing to try… anything with you." The tone in Sherlock's voice was one of admittance. Admittance of his feelings for John, and John took it.

"Same for you," said John. "Anything. Anything at all."

Sherlock laughed.

"So, are we good then?" asked John.

"Of course," said Sherlock, though there was slight reserve in his voice.

"We should clean this up," said John.

"Wrong," said Sherlock. "You should clean this up. I need a bath. Do have fun." And he winked and walked out the door.


End file.
